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Safe House

Cast: Denzel Washington, Ryan Reynolds, Robert Patrick, Vera Farmiga, Sam Shepard, Brendan Gleeson, Tanit Phoenix, Liam Cunningham, Joel Kinnaman, Nora Arnezeder

trailer for Safe House, directed by Daniel Espinosa, screenplay by David Guggenheim (2012)
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Lord Robert

Tall and young and light of tongue,
Gallantly riding by wood and lea,
He was ware of a maiden fair
And turned and whispered, 'Remember me.'
(Oh Lord Robert, Lord Robert, Lord Robert,
Oh Lord Robert, 'tis I, 'tis I;
Under their feet where the cross-roads meet
Dost thou think I can lie and lie,
Lord Robert, Lord Robert, Lord Robert?)

Day by day she walks that way
Never hoping by wood or lea
To be ware of the stranger gay
Who turned and whispered, 'Remember me.'
(Oh Lord Robert, Lord Robert, Lord Robert,
Oh Lord Robert, 'tis I, 'tis I;
Under their feet where the cross-roads meet
Dost thou think I can lie and lie,
Lord Robert, Lord Robert, Lord Robert?

Chance for chance he rides that way,
And again by wood or by lea
He was ware of the maiden fair,
And again he whispered, 'Remember me.'
(Oh Lord Robert, Lord Robert, Lord Robert,
Oh Lord Robert, 'tis I, 'tis I;
Under their feet where the cross-roads meet
Dost thou think I can lie and lie,
Lord Robert, Lord Robert, Lord Robert?)

Chance for chance that way rode he,
And again where he was ware,
Debonnair to that maiden fair
He turned and said, 'You remember me.'
(Oh Lord Robert, Lord Robert, Lord Robert,
Oh Lord Robert, 'tis I, 'tis I;
Under their feet where the cross-roads meet
Dost thou think I can lie and lie,
Lord Robert, Lord Robert, Lord Robert?)

Chance for chance on a summer-day,
Meeting her still by wood and lea,
He leaped gay from his gallant grey
And said, 'I see you remember me.'
(Oh Lord Robert, Lord Robert, Lord Robert,
Oh Lord Robert, 'tis I, 'tis I;

[...] Read more

poem by Sydney Thompson Dobell
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Narrative [ My Perspective ]

Patrick Jonathan Derilus
Mr. Filie
Period 6/7
Poetry

My Perspective

Patrick Jonathan Derilus is a young boy trying to turn his life around by defeating the demons that continue to destroy him….His life is somewhat different from how society sees everything else….
Feeling as if he is a cursed child …Cursed as if he is forever trapped in a cold cell…”Understanding” reality and how things happen is one of the things that attempts to get the best out of him and ironically it is succeeding…
But Patrick tries to look on the bright side of things and persists to becoming the best of the best…but there are spawns in which the devil created that prevents the young warrior from doing so…
“Depression”, “Doubt” and “Self Confidence” are some of the demons capable of easily annihilating Patrick…addressing these entity’s…Patrick is half way through this mile run..
But not aware of what goes on in his Penetrable temple, Destruction carries on to running amuck..
Patrick can hardly make it through the day when these Demons try to pursue him…Blood is spilled, but the low class warrior is still persistently consistent…
The only things that keep him alive are “Hope”, “Faith”, and the little confidence he has left…Inside the doors of the devil, as a New Jack; Patrick was clueless on how and why he reacts to things a certain way…Also to the way he is to this very day…Feeling like he was being controlled by a puppet master, he foolishly is put into one of Satan’s traps..As years went by, Patrick slowly began to picking up things in his mind and how it worked…
He learned on how to adapt and respond to these subliminal messages… but in time, Satan is able to quickly counteract on anything Patrick optimistically attempted to do. Leaving him with loopholes that would destroy Patrick from the inside…”WHY DOES MY MOOD AND PERSONALITY CONTINUE TO FLUCTUATE…? ” Patrick asks himself. So many questions asked but none of them answered… Satan has Patrick right where he wants him. “If I can’t rid of Patrick any other way, I can only destroy him mentally in which Patrick is easily fooled” Satan says.
Once internally defeated, pessimistic venoms leak into the sanctum of Patrick’s temple and slowly it is melting...”WHY ME? ! ” Patrick asks. Having the ability to even think for himself, Patrick wonders if he shall continue to fight off these Demons or become feasted upon…”Words coming from another voice will not be able to help me” Patrick says. Solutions being formed in his mind are to making the evil Entity’s disappear for good by finding an antidote to purifying Patrick’s mind…
But believing they are “antidotes” is too good to be true…Satan has created a loophole for everything in order to rid of Patrick anyway he can… Then realizing Patrick is seemingly hopeless on what to do for himself to Destroy Satan, He comes to the conclusion that Satan cannot destroy what does not exist… “WHEN MY SHACKLES OF DEPRESSION ARE BROKEN, I SHALL FIND TRUE HAPPINESS” Patrick sadly says. But he does not believe he shall rid of himself… He believes he shall continue to fight this everlasting war with Satan until these Demons are extinguished from the inside...Until he is Mentally Strong and is at peace with his mind…Patrick has vowed to attempting to destroy “Depression”, “Doubt” and “Negativity” in order to becoming the Man that he intends to be…Trying to recover from his internal scars.

poem by Patrick Derilus
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Hesitating Beauty

For your sparkling cocky smile I've walked a million miles
Begging you to come and wed me in the spring
Why do you my dear delay
What makes you laugh and turn away
You're a hesitating beauty, Nora Lee
Well I know that you are itching to get married, Nora Lee
And I know how I'm twitching for the same thing, Nora Lee
By the stars and clouds above we could spend our lives in love
You're a hesitating beauty, Nora Lee
We can build a house and home where the flowers come to bloom
Around our yard I'll nail a fence so high
That the boys with peeping eyes cannot see that angel face
My hesitating beauty Nora Lee
Well I know that you are itching to get married Nora Lee
And I know how I'm twitching for the same thing Nora Lee
By the stars and clouds above we can spend our lives in love
If you quit your hesitating, Nora Lee
We can ramble hand in hand across the grasses of our land
I'll kiss you for each leaf on every tree
We can bring our kids to play where the dry leaves blow today
If you quit your hesitating, Nora Lee
Well I know that you are itching to get married, Nora Lee
And I know how I'm twitching for the same thing, Nora Lee
By the stars and clouds above we could spend our lives in love
If you quit your hesitating, Nora Lee

song performed by Wilco
Added by Lucian Velea
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Lesbia Hath a Beaming Eye

Lesbia hath a beaming eye,
But no one knows for whom it beameth;
Right and left its arrows fly,
But what they aim at no one dreameth.
Sweeter 'tis to gaze upon
My Nora's lid that seldom rises;
Few its looks, but every one,
Like unexpected light, surprises!
Oh, my Nora Creina, dear,
My gentle, bashful Nora Creina,
Beauty lies
In many eyes,
But Love in yours, my Nora Creina.

Lesbia wears a robe of gold,
But all so close the nymph hath laced it,
Not a charm of beauty's mould
Presumes to stay where Nature placed it.
Oh! my Nora's gown for me,
That floats as wild as mountain breezes,
Leaving every beauty free
To sink or swell as Heaven pleases.
Yes, my Nora Creina, dear,
My simple, graceful Nora Creina,
Nature's dress
Is loveliness --
The dress you wear, my Nora Creina.

Lesbia hath a wit refined,
But, when its points are gleaning round us,
Who can tell if they're design'd
To dazzle merely, or to wound us?
Pillow'd on my Nora's heart,
In safer slumber Love reposes --
Bed of peace! whose roughest part
Is but the crumpling of the roses.
Oh! my Nora Creina, dear,
My mild, my artless Nora Creina!
Wit, though bright,
Hath no such light
As warms your eyes, my Nora Creina.

poem by Thomas Moore
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Nora El Nora

Nora El Nora, ne'ezar begvura shuvi elay malki
Dodi refa, nafshi nichsefa, lebeitach malchi
Nora El Nora, ne'ezar begvura
Nora Ashira, Lach akabira, shir mahalali
Lecha etna menat chevly vegoraly
Bekol zman azor el nora, geza avraham, netzer tifa'ara,
Ata el hai noten torah
[Translation:]
Nora El Nora, the lord of courage
Return me my lord, mend my wounds,
my soul is yearning, and in valor we wait.
Nora i sing thee, a hymn of praise,
to you I give my life and faith
Through all time, mighty Nora,
deliver us progeny of Abraham,
Offspring of greantess,
you are the libing God,
giver of Torah

song performed by Orphaned Land
Added by Lucian Velea
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My Nora

Beneath the gold acacia buds
My gentle Nora sits and broods,
Far, far away in Boston woods
My gentle Nora!

I see the tear-drop in her e'e,
Her bosom's heaving tenderly;
I know—I know she thinks of me,
My Darling Nora!

And where am I? My love, whilst thou
Sitt'st sad beneath the acacia bough,
Where pearl's on neck, and wreath on brow,
I stand, my Nora!

Mid carcanet and coronet,
Where joy-lamps shine and flowers are set—
Where England's chivalry are met,
Behold me, Nora!

In this strange scene of revelry,
Amidst this gorgeous chivalry,
A form I saw was like to thee,
My love—my Nora!

She paused amidst her converse glad;
The lady saw that I was sad,
She pitied the poor lonely lad,—
Dost love her, Nora?

In sooth, she is a lovely dame,
A lip of red, and eye of flame,
And clustering golden locks, the same
As thine, dear Nora?

Her glance is softer than the dawn's,
Her foot is lighter than the fawn's,
Her breast is whiter than the swan's,
Or thine, my Nora!

Oh, gentle breast to pity me!
Oh, lovely Ladye Emily!
Till death—till death I'll think of thee—
Of thee and Nora!

poem by William Makepeace Thackeray
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The Ouija Board

In Holmewood a quiet mining village in North Derbyshire
where the terraced houses were still owned by the mine.
There lived a young ex-miner with his wife and children,
and Dennis the father hadn’t worked for sometime.

Concrete floors were laid downstairs because of subsidence,
they had no curtains, carpets, television, or hi-fi.
All their money went on rent, food, and paying bills,
Vera was unhappy, but Dennis couldn’t understand why.

She wanted to move away from the village to Derby,
where opportunities knocked on every ones door.
But Dennis was accustomed to the hardships of mining
and moving away didn’t have the same draw.

He always persuaded Vera that things would get better
and a kiss and cuddle covered his incompetence.
All his ex-miner cronies were in the same boat,
and working for a living to him made no sense.

He’d become lazy and didn’t want the hassle of a new life
unlike many ex-miners who had moved to pastures new.
Many of the young families who rented their houses
were tied to the mine and didn’t know what else to do.

At the end of the main street was the village’s nearest pit,
and on any shift any miner could die.
Throughout the years many men had lost their lives,
and their bodies in the cemetery lie.

The miners’ widows very often came to see Vera
to ask if she would make contact with their dead.
She felt for the community and turned no one away,
and their gratitude helped to pay for the bread.

One night she would organise six people to be together,
in the unlit empty room at the top of the stairs.
Carrying a lit candle, an empty glass and Ouija board,
she would arrange the table and six fold down chairs.

The home made Ouija board lay flat on the table
and in the middle was the upturned glass.
As everyone placed their index finger on the top of it,
Vera whispered for silence for what was about to pass.

They waited whist the candle flame danced and flickered,
again she whispered, “Is anyone there? ”
As the glass moved to letters on the board’s pencilled alphabet,
a confirmation brought a chill to the air.

[...] Read more

poem by Orlando Belo
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In Pursuit of the Poetic Soul of Ryan Adams

In Pursuit of the Poetic Soul of Ryan Adams

By Uriah Lee Hamilton

Last day of summer, football Saturday afternoon. A Warm breeze was pushing me toward Ann Arbor like a happy autumn leaf in pursuit of the beautiful poetic soul of Ryan Adams. Lovely charming mood all the way playing Easy Tiger and Demolition and feeling like the universe was kind and smiling.
Exit off 94 West onto State Street and all excited to make my way to Liberty Street and the heart of the College town I love. Kids were milling around everywhere in their gold and blue, gleeful and happy that Michigan is now playing 500 football after a discouraging start. Parking spaces across the street from Michigan Theater in the parking structure are all taken, I have to drive to the roof and still wait for a football fan to leave.
Me and my friend Cassandra start walking around and dig everything and everyone we see. Ann Arbor brings out your gentle Jack Kerouac nature, the part of you that wants to praise everything for it’s sad but beautiful, integral purpose to this existence.
We enter an Eastern clothing and folk art store that is positively charming and enlightening. I can’t remember the name of the store. Perhaps, it is called the Enchanted Sarong. It almost felt like George Harrison was there with us, beautiful carved statues of Buddha and Krishna and Ganesha were everywhere. The sales lady was friendly and helpful and said sweetly, “we’re Om friendly” as we asked about carved symbols for the breath-word Om. The serene incense Nag Champa drifted through the room but it was now time to leave and make our way to the Ryan Adams concert at Michigan Theater.
I purchased my tickets the very minute they went on sale and prayed I had front row despite my tickets saying double A. No Such luck, but I was still happy to be in row 27. As I was waiting for the show to begin, I saw my concert friend Jeremy and got his attention. He looked as happy and as excited as myself and said he had spent a fortune at some cool record store. Jeremy then handed me a beautiful soundboard copy of Ryan Adams at the Gem Theater in downtown Detroit June 20th 2007. Man, how I’ve been longing for that show! I then gave Jeremy a copy of Ryan’s punk rock band the Finger.
Now the lights go out and the music begins. Ryan Opens with Goodnight Rose and closes with Goodnight Hollywood Boulevard. Everything in-between is just magical. The first auspicious sign was that Ryan came out playing guitar! ! In June, he only sang, he didn’t play any instruments, some injury sidelined him. The June Show as a result was more subtle, almost like MTV Unplugged. Subtle but amazing. Last night was more rocking and adventurous with reworked extended arrangements, ala the Grateful Dead. In particular was a long and lovely version of Off Broadway from Easy Tiger. At the completion of Off Broadway, I shouted, “That was gorgeous! ” Of course, I may have added an expletive, all in the interest of ecstatic joy for music.
Ryan told a story during the show about running into a girl on her way to the concert that didn’t recognize him because he dresses like a plumber. My friend after the show said she thought she saw Ryan Adams on the street near the theater. I asked, “Really? ” She said, “I saw someone that looked like a plumber.” I can say, I didn’t see Ryan on the streets anywhere in Ann Arbor yesterday, but I have been known to miss a plumber or two in my day.
The first two songs in the encore made the whole show for me. Ryan came out by himself with an acoustic guitar and sang Call Me On Your Way Back Home. Toward the end of the song, Ryan played harmonica and I screamed like a schoolgirl, pretty much the way I do whenever Bobby Dylan plays harmonica! And if that wasn’t enough to make the end of summer completely magical, Ryan then sat down at the piano and sang Sylvia Plath: Oh my God, the point of tears! I’ve waited six years to hear him sing that song live from the Album Gold. As I told my friend, that was the song that sealed the deal making Ryan Adams my modern hero! If you want to get my attention and loyalty, sing about one of the tragic poets I love.

poem by Uriah Hamilton
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The Son Of Vera

I'm - the son of Vera...
I did not write you the letters for long,
Vera Pavlovna.
Winds have carried me away,
Winds were singing me a song
Once - impudently,
The other time - terribly,
At last - plaintively.

I'm - the son of Vera.
Oh, how did you help me, mother!
Mama Vera...
You embraced me on the empty stations, mama Vera.
I'm - the son of Vera.
You were waiting for the useless son to be back, mama Vera...
And you asked me to write
in my letters the only truth, mama Vera...

I'm - the son of Vera!
The Belief not into god, not in angels, not in the next world!
I'm - the son of belief in sun,
Which is shining through the tatters of clouds!
I'm - the son of belief in the labour of a man,
In the flowers on the burnt earth.

I'm - the son of belief!
The belief in the silence under the torture!
And in the song before the execution!
I'm - the son of belief in the terrestial love,
dazzling as a miracle.
I'm - the son of belief in the Morrow
such as I wish it to be!
And in the people, who are wide as a road!
Sincere, and worthy...

I'm - the son of belief, I despise ninnies!
I hate ones, whining and groaning! ..
I write to you only the truth, mama Vera.
Only the truth...

Only here is much a business!
Forgive me,
I'll not be back soon...

poem by Robert Rozhdestvensky, translated by Lyudmila Purgina
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Es Ist Nie Vorbei

Together:
Sam bo rom bom
Es ist nie vorbei
Sam bo rom bom
Sam bo rom bom
Ich denk' an dich
Sam bo rom bom
Ich hab sehnsucht nach dir
Blmchen:
Es ist nie vorbei
Es ist zauberei
Verliebt in alle ewigkeit
Manchmal gibt es streit
Aber mit der zeit
Kommt die sehnsucht wieder
Und ich denk' an dich
Und du an mich
Wir sehen uns beide magischen
Es ist nie vorbei
Es ist zauberei
Wie ein unsichtsbares paar
E-type:
We've come a long way
It's been a rough ride
Tell me why all the good things has to come to an end
We've left no stone unturned
Tell me what
How will i miss you already waiting for your return
Together:
Sam bo rom bom
Es ist nie vorbei
Sam bo rom bom
Sam bo rom bom
Ich denk' an dich
Sam bo rom bom
Ich hab sehnsucht nach dir
Blmchen:
Es ist nie vorbei
Es ist zauberei
Verliebt in alle ewigkeit
Manchmal gibt es streit
Aber mit der zeit
Kommt die sehnsucht wieder
Und ich denk' an dich
Und du an mich
Wir sehen uns beide magischen
Es ist nie vorbei
Es ist zauberei
Wie ein unsichtsbares paar
E-type:

[...] Read more

song performed by E-type
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Narrative And Dramatic The Wanderings Of Oisin

BOOK I

S. Patrick. You who are bent, and bald, and blind,
With a heavy heart and a wandering mind,
Have known three centuries, poets sing,
Of dalliance with a demon thing.

Oisin. Sad to remember, sick with years,
The swift innumerable spears,
The horsemen with their floating hair,
And bowls of barley, honey, and wine,
Those merry couples dancing in tune,
And the white body that lay by mine;
But the tale, though words be lighter than air.
Must live to be old like the wandering moon.

Caoilte, and Conan, and Finn were there,
When we followed a deer with our baying hounds.
With Bran, Sceolan, and Lomair,
And passing the Firbolgs' burial-motmds,
Came to the cairn-heaped grassy hill
Where passionate Maeve is stony-still;
And found On the dove-grey edge of the sea
A pearl-pale, high-born lady, who rode
On a horse with bridle of findrinny;
And like a sunset were her lips,
A stormy sunset on doomed ships;
A citron colour gloomed in her hair,

But down to her feet white vesture flowed,
And with the glimmering crimson glowed
Of many a figured embroidery;
And it was bound with a pearl-pale shell
That wavered like the summer streams,
As her soft bosom rose and fell.

S. Patrick. You are still wrecked among heathen dreams.

Oisin. 'Why do you wind no horn?' she said
'And every hero droop his head?
The hornless deer is not more sad
That many a peaceful moment had,
More sleek than any granary mouse,
In his own leafy forest house
Among the waving fields of fern:
The hunting of heroes should be glad.'

'O pleasant woman,' answered Finn,
'We think on Oscar's pencilled urn,
And on the heroes lying slain

[...] Read more

poem by William Butler Yeats
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The Great Hunger

I
Clay is the word and clay is the flesh
Where the potato-gatherers like mechanised scarecrows move
Along the side-fall of the hill - Maguire and his men.
If we watch them an hour is there anything we can prove
Of life as it is broken-backed over the Book
Of Death? Here crows gabble over worms and frogs
And the gulls like old newspapers are blown clear of the hedges, luckily.
Is there some light of imagination in these wet clods?
Or why do we stand here shivering?
Which of these men
Loved the light and the queen
Too long virgin? Yesterday was summer. Who was it promised marriage to himself
Before apples were hung from the ceilings for Hallowe'en?
We will wait and watch the tragedy to the last curtain,
Till the last soul passively like a bag of wet clay
Rolls down the side of the hill, diverted by the angles
Where the plough missed or a spade stands, straitening the way.
A dog lying on a torn jacket under a heeled-up cart,
A horse nosing along the posied headland, trailing
A rusty plough. Three heads hanging between wide-apart legs.
October playing a symphony on a slack wire paling.
Maguire watches the drills flattened out
And the flints that lit a candle for him on a June altar
Flameless. The drills slipped by and the days slipped by
And he trembled his head away and ran free from the world's halter,
And thought himself wiser than any man in the townland
When he laughed over pints of porter
Of how he came free from every net spread
In the gaps of experience. He shook a knowing head
And pretended to his soul
That children are tedious in hurrying fields of April
Where men are spanning across wide furrows.
Lost in the passion that never needs a wife
The pricks that pricked were the pointed pins of harrows.
Children scream so loud that the crows could bring
The seed of an acre away with crow-rude jeers.
Patrick Maguire, he called his dog and he flung a stone in the air
And hallooed the birds away that were the birds of the years.
Turn over the weedy clods and tease out the tangled skeins.
What is he looking for there?
He thinks it is a potato, but we know better
Than his mud-gloved fingers probe in this insensitive hair.
'Move forward the basket and balance it steady
In this hollow. Pull down the shafts of that cart, Joe,
And straddle the horse,' Maguire calls.
'The wind's over Brannagan's, now that means rain.
Graip up some withered stalks and see that no potato falls
Over the tail-board going down the ruckety pass -
And that's a job we'll have to do in December,

[...] Read more

poem by Patrick Kavanagh
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The Ride Of Rody Burke

The heat haze veiled the distant hills, the white clouds floated high,
Drifting in slow content across the blue Australian sky;
And down in Clancy’s paddock there were mirth and laughter gay,
Where the She-Oak Jockey Club were met upon St. Patrick’s day.

There were carts and cars and buggies ranged beneath the spreading trees,
Where country folk for miles around were clustered thick as bees,
Watching the prancing horses pass with keen appraising eyes,
All out to win the Squatters’ Cup, the hundred-guinea prize.

Jim Daintry on The Digger rose; hopes for his mount were high,
A gallant roan with swinging pace, game head and fiery eye,
And Jim’s horse was the favourite, the betting there was keen,
But some were backing Rody Burke upon Dark Rosaleen.

A thing of velvet, fire and steel-a little dark brown mare,
With dainty legs and shoulders slant, lean head and high-bred air,
But knowing backers simply scoffed her chances of the race,
“She’ll never see his heels when once The Digger sets the pace.”

‘Twas just before the starting time that Rody reached the course,
And little Nora Shanahan watched for the dark brown horse,
And sighed to mark the rider’s face was white as if with pain,
Could Rody after all her prayers, be ‘going wild’ again?

How could she know that very morn as Rody cross the yard
The old white draught-horse lumbering by, had lashed out good and hard.
The broken ribs, the searing pain that caught his breath away—
Ah! Naught but Irish pluck and grit brought Rody there that day.

As he and Jim rose side by side, each cast a wistful eye
Where little Nora Shanahan looked on aloof and shy;
And each man thrilled at sight of her, the simple girlish grace,
The little kind brown hands of her, the apple-blossom face.

Rivals were they in sport and love, and yet good friends withal,
Whose true Australian mateship held no feeling mean or small,
And Nora, long her maiden heart had done an angels’ work,
With tears and prayers to save the soul of reckless Rody Burke.

Jim Daintry, manly, straight and true, had spreading acres wide,
And any girl in she-Oak might be proud to be his bride,
But who shall read a woman’s heart, or pierce its hidden screen,
Sweet Nora’s hopes were on the track with Rod and Rosaleen.

They’re off! A rush of flying hoofs, a blur of colours bright –
Tim Clancy’s Skylark in the lead, The Digger well in sight,
Dark Rosaleen leads the bunch behind, nor falters in her stride,
While Rody bears with sobbing breath the torture in his side.

[...] Read more

poem by Alice Guerin Crist
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Sam

(john farrar/hank marvin/don black)
I heard that youre on your own now
So am i
Im living alone now
I was wrong
So were you
What will you do?
Are you glad to be free?
Are you feeling lost just like me?
Longing for company
Oh sam, sam, you know where I am
Come around and talk awhile
I need your smile
You need a shoulder
Oh sam, sam, you know where I am
And the door is open wide
Come on inside
Longing to see you
Oh sam, sam, you know where I am
I find the days hard to face now
Empty rooms
Theres much too much space now
And the nights go so slow
Im sure you know
Wish I knew what to do
It would be so nice seeing you
And it might help you too
Oh sam, sam, you know where I am
Come around and talk awhile
I need your smile
You need a shoulder
Oh sam, sam, you know where I am
And the door is open wide
Come on inside
Longing to see you
Oh sam, sam, you know where I am
Oh sam, you know where I am
Oh sam, ooh sam
You know, you know
You know where I am

song performed by Olivia Newton-John
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Rivals

Look heah! Is I evah tole you 'bout de curious way I won
Anna Liza? Say, I nevah? Well heah's how de thing wuz done.

Lize, you know, wuz mighty purty —dat's been forty yeahs ago —
'N 'cos to look at her dis minit, you might'n spose dat it wuz so.

She wuz jes de greates' 'traction in de county, 'n bless de lam'!
Eveh darkey wuz a-co'tin, but it lay 'twix me an' Sam.

You know Sam. We both wuz wukin' on de ole John Tompkin's place.
'N evehbody wuz a-watchin' t' see who's gwine to win de race.

Hee! hee! hee! Now you mus' raley 'scuse me fu' dis snickering,
But I jes can't he'p f'om laffin' eveh time I tells dis thing.

Ez I wuz a-sayin', me an' Sam wuked daily side by side,
He a-studyin', me a-studyin', how to win Lize fu' a bride.

Well, de race was kinder equal. Lize wuz sorter on de fence;
Sam he had de mostes dollars, an' I had de mostes sense.

Things dey run along 'bout eben tel der come Big Meetin' day;
Sam den thought, to win Miss Liza, he had foun' de shoest way.

An' you talk about big meetin's! None been like it 'fore nor sence;
Der wuz sich a crowd o' people dat we had to put up tents.

Der wuz preachers f'om de Eas', an' 'der wuz preachers f'om de Wes';
Folks had kilt mos' eveh chicken, an' wuz fattenin' up de res'.

Gals had all got new w'ite dresses, an' bought ribbens fu' der hair,
Fixin' fu' de openin' Sunday, prayin' dat de day'd be fair.

Dat de Reveren' Jasper Jones of Mount Moriah, it wuz 'low'd,
Wuz to preach de openin' sermon; so you know der wuz a crowd.

Fu' dat man wuz sho a preacher; had a voice jes like a bull;
So der ain't no use in sayin' dat de meetin' house wuz full.

Folks wuz der f'om Big Pine Hollow, some come 'way f'om Muddy Creek,
Some come jes to stay fu' Sunday, but de crowd stay'd thoo de week.

Some come ridin' in top-buggies wid de w'eels all painted red,
Pulled by mules dat run like rabbits, each one tryin' to git ahead.

Othah po'rer folks come drivin' mules dat leaned up 'ginst de shaf',
Hitched to broke-down, creaky wagons dat looked like dey'd drap in half.

But de bigges' crowd come walkin', wid der new shoes on der backs;
'Scuse wuz dat dey couldn't weah em 'cause de heels wuz full o' tacks.

[...] Read more

poem by James Weldon Johnson
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Why Washington Retreated

1775

Said Congress to George Washington:
"To set this country free,
You'll have to whip the Britishers
And chase them o'er the sea."
"Oh, very well," said Washington,
"I'll do the best I can.
I'll slam and bang those Britishers
And whip them to a man."

1777

Said Congress to George Washington:
"The people all complain;
Why don't you fight? You but retreat
And then retreat again."
"That can't be helped," said Washington,
"As you will quite agree
When you see how the novelists
Have mixed up things for me."

Said Congress to George Washington:
"Pray make your meaning clear."
Said Washington: "Why, certainly --
But pray excuse this tear.
Of course we know," said Washington,
"The object of this war --
It is to furnish novelists
With patriotic lore."

Said Congress to George Washington:
"Yes! yes! but pray proceed."
Said Washington: "My part in it
Is difficult indeed,
For every hero in the books
Must sometime meet with me,
And every sweet-faced heroine
I must kiss gallantly."

Said Congress to George Washington:
"But why must you retreat?"
Said Washington: "One moment, please,
My story to complete.
These hero-folk are scattered through
The whole United States;
At every little country town
A man or maiden waits."

To Congress said George Washington:

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poem by Ellis Parker Butler
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Conroy's Gap

This was the way of it, don't you know --
Ryan was "wanted" for stealing sheep,
And never a trooper, high or low,
Could find him -- catch a weasel asleep!
Till Trooper Scott, from the Stockman's Ford --
A bushman, too, as I've heard them tell --
Chanced to find him drunk as a lord
Round at the Shadow of Death Hotel.
D'you know the place? It's a wayside inn,
A low grog-shanty -- a bushman trap,
Hiding away in its shame and sin
Under the shelter of Conroy's Gap --
Under the shade of that frowning range
The roughest crowd that ever drew breath --
Thieves and rowdies, uncouth and strange,
Were mustered round at the "Shadow of Death".

The trooper knew that his man would slide
Like a dingo pup, if he saw the chance;
And with half a start on the mountain side
Ryan would lead him a merry dance.
Drunk as he was when the trooper came,
to him that did not matter a rap --
Drunk or sober, he was the same,
The boldest rider in Conroy's Gap.

"I want you, Ryan," the trooper said,
"And listen to me, if you dare resist,
So help me heaven, I'll shoot you dead!"
He snapped the steel on his prisoner's wrist,
And Ryan, hearing the handcuffs click,
Recovered his wits as they turned to go,
For fright will sober a man as quick
As all the drugs that the doctors know.

There was a girl in that shanty bar
Went by the name of Kate Carew,
Quiet and shy as the bush girls are,
But ready-witted and plucky, too.
She loved this Ryan, or so they say,
And passing by, while her eyes were dim
With tears, she said in a careless way,
"The Swagman's round in the stable, Jim."

Spoken too low for the trooper's ear,
Why should she care if he heard or not?
Plenty of swagmen far and near --
And yet to Ryan it meant a lot.
That was the name of the grandest horse
In all the district from east to west;

[...] Read more

poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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The Brus Book XIII

[Douglas's division attacks]

Quhen thir twa fyrst bataillis wer
Assemblyt as I said you er,
The Stewart Walter that than was
And the gud lord als of Douglas
5 In a bataill, quhen that thai saw
The erle foroutyn dred or aw
Assembill with his cumpany
On all that folk sa sturdely
For till help him thai held thar way
10 And thar bataill in gud aray,
And assemblyt sa hardely
Besid the erle a litill by
That thar fayis feld thar cummyn wele,
For with wapynnys stalwart of stele
15 Thai dang apon with all thar mycht.
Thar fayis resavyt weile Ik hycht
With swerdis speris and with mase,
The bataill thar sa feloune was
And sua rycht gret spilling of blud
20 That on the erd the flousis stud.
The Scottismen sa weill thaim bar
And sua gret slauchter maid thai thar
And fra sa fele the lyvis revyt
That all the feld bludy wes levyt.
25 That tyme thar thre bataillis wer
All syd be sid fechtand weill ner,
Thar mycht men her mony dynt
And wapynnys apon armuris stynt,
And se tumble knychtis and stedis
30 And mony rich and reale wedis
Defoullyt foully under fete,
Sum held on loft sum tynt the suet.
A lang quhill thus fechtand thai war
That men na noyis mycht her thar,
35 Men hard nocht bot granys and dintis
That slew fyr as men slayis on flyntis,
Thai faucht ilk ane sa egerly
That thai maid nother moyis na cry
Bot dang on other at thar mycht
40 With wapnys that war burnyst brycht.
The arowys als sua thyk thar flaw
That thai mycht say wele that thaim saw
That thai a hidwys schour gan ma,
For quhar thai fell Ik undreta
45 Thai left efter thaim taknyng
That sall ned as I trow leching.

[Sir Robert Keith's cavalry disperses the English archers]

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poem by John Barbour
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Dr. Robert

Ring my friend I said you'd call Dr. Robert,
Day or night he'll be there anytime at all Dr. Robert.
Dr. Robert, your a new and better man,
He helps you to understand,
He does everything he can, Dr. Robert.
If your down he'll pick you up Dr. Robert,
Take a drink from his special cup Dr. Robert
Dr. Robert, he's a man you must believe,
Helping everyone in need,
No one can succeed like Dr. Robert
Well, well, well your feeling fine,
Well, well, well, he'll make you Dr. Robert
My friend works for the national health Dr. Robert,
Don't take money to see yourself with Dr. Robert
Dr. Robert, your a new and better man,
He helps you to understand,
He does everything he can Dr. Robert
Well, well, well, your feeling fine,
Well, well, well, he'll make you Dr. Robert
Ring my friend I said you'd call Dr. Robert (2x)
Dr. Robert!

song performed by Beatles
Added by Lucian Velea
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Uncle Sam

Here they come again hop scotching up to my door
One by one again knockety knock knocking upon my floor
Swinging on my gate they gain entry by the yard
Pulling at my hair they scream paint your thoughts upon my card
But not tonight Ive got studies to examine
Tomorrow Ill be watching all the queens men
A talent contest on monday with my uncle sam
Who now takes up all of my time he gives me things to do
cause hes a wonderful man
But Im sailing across the sea to see my uncle sam
Im sailing across the sea to be with my uncle sam
To be with my uncle sam
Silly little sniggers from the women liberators
But Ill stand and hold my post
Polished buttons and erect Ill raise the flag
Ill show those women whos the most
But not tonight Ive got studies to examine
Tomorrow Ill be watching all the queens men
A talent contest on monday with my uncle sam
Who now takes up all of my time, gives me things to do
Hes a wonderful man
But Im sailing across the sea to see my uncle sam
Im sailing across the sea to be with my uncle sam
Im sailing across the sea to see my uncle sam
Im sailing across the sea to be with my uncle sam
But not tonight Ive got studies to examine
Tomorrow ah ah ah
And tomorrow Ill be watching all the queens men
A talent contest on monday with my uncle sam
Who now takes up all of my time he gives me things to do
cause hes a wonderful man
Im sailing across the sea to see my uncle sam
Im sailing across the sea to be with my uncle sam
Im sailing across the sea to see my uncle sam
Im sailing across the sea to be with my uncle sam

song performed by Madness
Added by Lucian Velea
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